Collecting diamonds and some worthless stones.: The night of sleep I had. Human-sized birdbath. Outkast. Pilgrimage.

I hate nights of sleep where it feels like you're just laying in a ball and there are voices in a dark room and whatever bodies accompany the voices. They're rooting through your dirty laundry, sniffing the heels of your socks. They're making noise with heavy shoes and talking. All night people are talking and you hear them the whole time. When you wake up, you don't remember a word they said. Kind of like a dream you had 30 seconds before you wake up: you know you just had one, but can't remember any of it.

In turn, I didn't have a good night's sleep. But that's nothing breakfast can't fix:

It's pretty much 150% B-vitamins and guarana. The later really isn't good for you, but whatever. Tastes good with an onion bagel & cream cheese.

I've been thinking about going to a place out on Interstate 65 in Clarksville called The Concrete Lady. Not just because that's a super-metal name for a business, but because they sell huge concrete sculptures that people can buy. A half-dozen gorillas making the Godzilla-on-top-of-the-Empire-State-Building pose. Rhinos, zombies, small Volkswagen Beetles, children, angels, farmers. You can turn your garden or front yard into a lifeless civilization of concrete moulds painted tumbleweed tan and green.

My request is to get a birdbath large enough so I could use it to bathe myself. I'd place it in my yard next to the apple tree and clean myself every morning. People could drive by and not be ashamed of anything. They'd drive to The Concrete Lady and by themselves a birdbath, and everyone in Floyd County would start bathing in their yards so shame would disappear. Problems with money, spousal abuse, neglect, addictions, anguish would all disappear because you'd ride by on your bike and the inconsequentials would be gone. Mothers pushing their toddlers in strollers would only see flesh and hair. Bathing would be a second birth.

This is my mother fucking jam.